A NIGHT ON THE BATTLEFIELD.
When Jack found himself once more out of danger, and the excitement of
that terrible charge had died away, he became aware of a feeling of
absolute weakness and helplessness, while his mouth and throat were so
parched and dry that he felt he could not have spoken a word to save his
life.
Many officers came crowding round shaking hands with him and Barrymore,
congratulating them on their escape, and lauding their gallantry in
standing by and rescuing their officer in face of the terrible odds they
had to contend with.
A doctor and two assistants came up and took the insensible Captain
Norreys in hand, while many questions were poured on Jack and the
sergeant.
They had answered a few questions; and just then a French General came
up, and, pointing to Captain Norreys, said, ‘Your officer, comrades?’
Jack and Barrymore, saluting, said he was.
‘And you, _sous officiers_,’ he said, ‘I saw you bring him from under
fire. Ah, _mes braves_, if you were French I would make you officers on
the spot.’ He was the same officer who on seeing the charge exclaimed,
‘It is splendid, but it is not war!’
A little revived, Jack and Barrymore walked on to the crest of the hill
on which the remnants of the Light Brigade were forming up. The flutter
of lance-pennons showed where Jack’s regiment was, and the two
battle-weary soldiers walked towards them. Jack counted the survivors,
officers and men, under thirty! The 13th Light Dragoons were barely a
dozen, and the remains of all five regiments numbered but little over a
hundred men. Many of these were bareheaded and blood-stained; all had a
strained, far-away look in their eyes which told of the terrible ordeal
through which they had passed.[6]
Jack gazed along the faces of the men of his own regiment; but none of
his particular friends were there. Captain Norreys, Cornet Leland,
Linham, Brandon, Pearson, Williams, Hodson--all, all gone.
Jack turned his eyes down the hill. One or two weary, wounded stragglers
were seen coming up--a man of the 11th Hussars, his head bound up,
leaning round the neck of a Light Dragoon; two men of the 8th,
half-carrying a trumpeter between them. Jack strained his eyes; it was
not Larry, neither did he see his Irish friend with his regiment.
He felt his hand grasped, and, turning, saw Will, his arm bound round
with a blood-stained bandage. He had just come from having his wound
dressed.
‘Will, Will,’ cried Jack, ‘where are our comrades--where is the old
regiment?’
‘Gone, Jack. All gone,’ half-sobbed Will; and at those words Jack’s
fortitude gave way and the tears rolled down his weather-beaten face.
‘It can’t be helped Jack,’ said Will. ‘It’s been a horrible blunder; but
at least we’ve done our duty. You’re wounded though. Look at your cap.’
Jack removed his battered lance-cap, and found it had a bullet-hole
through it, and that a sabre had cut the square top right down to the
plate in front, inflicting a slight wound on his head, of which he was
quite unaware. He had a graze from a bullet on his left shoulder, the
right leg of his overalls had been ripped open by a lance or sword,
exposing the flesh, and there were several rents in his uniform.
‘I’m all right, Will,’ he said; ‘just tie my handkerchief round my
shoulder till we are dismissed.’
Presently the roll was called, and thirty-five of the 17th answered to
their names, every man, when the name of a missing comrade was called,
giving what information he could as to when he had last seen his chum.
Several men spoke to having seen poor Brandon’s head literally blown to
pieces. Pearson had been seen returning down the valley unhorsed, and
fighting with five Russians. Cornet Leland had been seen for the last
time amongst the cavalry in rear of the guns; but none knew what had
happened to Sergeant Linham, he seemed to have disappeared about the
time when Jack’s horse had been killed.
While the roll was being called and the farriers were busy with their
pistols despatching the wounded horses, Lord Cardigan rode up to the
remnants of the brigade. His face wore a sorrowful expression.
‘Men,’ he said, ‘it was a mad-brained trick; but it was no fault of
mine.’
The charge of the Light Brigade lasted but twenty minutes, and it was
barely noon when the survivors formed up on the hill overlooking the
valley.
Firing went on till four o’clock, but nothing else was attempted by the
Allies. The cavalry retired some distance from the site of their old
camp, and the field remained in possession of the enemy.
In the evening, as the survivors struggled to light fires to cook their
rations, an ominous silence reigned.
They had just taken part in the most brilliant cavalry charge in modern
warfare. Every survivor, so long as he should live, would be looked upon
as a hero; but there was no elation. Every one was thinking of friends
and comrades, sometimes brothers, lying cold and stiff out in that
Valley of Death. It would be a terrible day for those left behind in
England!
Presently the men sought their tents; but few of them could sleep. Of
those who had occupied Jack’s tent he was the only one left. Linham,
Brandon, Pearson, Williams--all were gone. He asked Will to share his
tent with him, and they both turned in. Presently Jack, who had been
trying to get to sleep, jumped up.
‘Hallo!’ said Will,’can’t you sleep? Nor can I.’
‘My mind keeps running on our comrades. I can’t get it out of my head
that they may be out there on the field, perhaps dying for the want of a
drink of water.’
‘I feel the same,’ said Will. ‘Are you game to come with me and see if
we can find any one alive?’
‘Anything, to keep myself from thinking.’
‘Come on then.’
The two donned their forage-caps, and each taking a pistol and their
water-bottles, in which they had some spirits-and-water, they started.
They made their way to the north valley, easily passing the picket. They
reached the spot from whence the Light Brigade had started, and kept
along till presently they came to the place where Nolan had been killed.
His dead body still lay where it had fallen.
Some distance farther along they came to several dead horses; then men,
all in the blue and white of their own regiment or the 13th Light
Dragoons, either stretched out as though asleep, or lying in curiously
huddled-up positions. Some of their comrades they recognised; in others,
the nature of their wounds was such as to render this impossible. All
were dead, however.
As they proceeded farther the pale moonbeams showed some Hussars. Among
them they came to a poor fellow of the 11th with one leg crushed, who
from time to time moaned in agony. This man they were able to make more
comfortable, and gave him a drink, for which he blessed them.
They were moving farther along when they saw at a little distance from
them another figure, crouching low as though to avoid detection. In an
instant Will cocked his pistol.
‘Some murdering wretch robbing the wounded,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll put an
end to his game.’
He was about to pull the trigger when Jack seized his arm. ‘Don’t fire,’
he said, ‘the Russians are in possession of the field and must be close
to us. We shall bring them down on us. We are two to one; pick up one of
these swords lying about and let us tackle him.’
They did so, and advanced towards the man, who as quickly retreated. As
he did so Jack saw that the man was a soldier, and he seemed to be
wearing a scarlet tunic.
‘He can’t be a Russian, Will,’ he said; ‘none of them wear scarlet.’
Then, raising his voice, he cried, ‘Hi there, who are you?’
The man in front, halted and turned round, when Jack and Will, getting
nearer, to their surprise saw he was a British Dragoon.
‘Who are you, and what are you doing here?’ asked Jack.
‘I might as well ask you that,’ replied the Dragoon, recognising the
uniform of the 17th; ‘but I’m Denis O’Callaghan of the Inniskillings,
and I’m looking for my cousin Larry. He’s in the 8th Hussars, and I’m
told he’s not with his regiment, so I could not rest till I tried to
find the poor bhoy’s body.’
‘He is one of my best friends,’ said Jack; ‘I’m here as much to find him
as anybody.’
Together, then, the three searched, and presently they came across
several Hussars in blue and yellow. One was lying on his face, and in an
instant Jack saw the gold chevrons of a sergeant glittering faintly in
the moonlight. There was a trumpet on his back too, and Jack’s heart
grew heavy as he saw it.
Gently he stepped up to the body and turned it over. Larry’s well-known
features were exposed. Jack dropped on his knees and raised his friend’s
head; his face was white as marble. He felt under the laced jacket; all
was cold and still and silent, the faithful heart had ceased to beat.
Tears, of which Jack was not ashamed, dropped on poor Larry’s face.
‘True comrade, faithful heart,’ Jack murmured, ‘God has willed that you
shall never be trumpet-major of the 8th; but you have gone to join that
nobler army in the ranks of which we must all sooner or later answer to
our names.’
‘Ochone, ochone!’ wailed the big Dragoon; ‘shure this will be a sad day
for ould Con O’Callaghan. Larry was the apple of his eye, his favourite
son, who followed in the ould man’s footsteps. Wirra, wirra, Larry
darlint, spake to me!’
‘Hush, comrade!’ said Jack; ‘poor Larry will never speak again!’
He had been killed by the splinter of a shell, and death must have been
instantaneous, for the poor lad’s face still wore a kind of triumphant
smile. They straightened his limbs, sheathed the sword still attached by
the sword-knot to his wrist, and placed his trumpet and bugle on his
breast. The Dragoon knelt beside his dead cousin in prayer for a minute,
and Jack and Will stood bareheaded.
Suddenly a faint scream broke on the night air, and Jack, looking behind
him, saw a dark figure bending over a dead or wounded man. As he gazed
he saw a gleam of steel, and in an instant, being suspicious, darted
towards the spot. As he did so a tall, thin figure in a long, dark sort
of gown darted away. Jack followed him, Will coming on behind.
The man, who carried a little sack, ran swiftly, and the two Lancers
chased him for some distance down towards the Russian lines before they
overtook him. They then saw he was a hook-nosed villain with a long
black beard, and Jack immediately grappled him.
The fellow drew a knife and tried to stab Jack; but the latter seized
his wrist and held it. Will coming up, they got the man on the ground,
and, overpowering him, proceeded to bind him with the bridle of a dead
horse. This done, they examined the bag he was carrying, and saw it was
filled with gold epaulets, watches, rings, money, medals, even chevrons
and sword-knots.
‘The scoundrelly villain,’ cried Jack; ‘he’s been robbing the dead and
wounded!’
‘If nothing worse,’ said Will. ‘Look at this!’ and he held up the knife
which he had wrested from him. There was a dark, sticky fluid on the
blade.
Jack shuddered. ‘Blood,’ he said; ‘that accounts for the scream we
heard.’
‘What shall we do with him?’ asked Will.
‘Haul him back prisoner,’ replied Jack.
‘Blow his brains out,’ said Will. ‘Why be troubled with such a reptile?’
They were standing irresolute, when suddenly Jack cried, ‘By Jove, look
there!’
Close behind them a number of men, some carrying lanterns, had crept up,
and several with rifles in their hands were advancing rapidly towards
the two Lancers.
‘Russians,’ said Jack. ‘We’re in a fix!’
‘We must run,’ said Will.
They started to do so, when _bang! bang!_ two reports rang out and two
balls whizzed past them.
‘Let’s fall as though killed,’ said Jack; ‘perhaps they won’t trouble
anything more about us.’
They did as Jack suggested, and lay still for a second. But rapid
footsteps approaching, they felt themselves seized, and looking up saw
the flat faces and dark-gray coats of several Russians.
They were prisoners!
For a few moments Jack half-expected to be immediately despatched, for
ominous tales about the treatment of wounded and prisoners by the
Russians had found their way to the camp of the Allies. Instead, he and
Will were raised to their feet, and on the group with the lanterns
approaching Jack saw, to his surprise, several officers of high rank.
One, a handsome man with a white moustache, on whose breast several
orders glittered, spoke sharply to his companions, some of whom spoke in
reply. Then the scoundrel whom the Lancers had bound was discovered, on
which the Russian officers spoke rapidly together.
Then a couple of soldiers came and felt over Jack’s and Will’s uniforms,
as though to find out whether they had any ill-gotten gains concealed
about their persons.
The action was so significant that Jack cried out, ‘Good Heavens, they
can’t think we’ve anything to do with that vile wretch! Can’t they see
by our uniforms we’re English soldiers?’
‘If you are,’ said a voice in excellent English, ‘why are you prowling
about on the battlefield? Do you not know you are liable to be shot as
spies?’
Jack turned in surprise and saw he was addressed by an officer in a
handsome uniform of green and silver.
‘You cannot mistake us for spies, sir,’ he said respectfully, ‘seeing we
are in uniform.’
The white-moustached officer now spoke, and the officer in green said,
‘General Liprandi wants to know at once who you are, and what you are
doing here?’
‘We are English Lancers, and we came to see if we could succour any of
our wounded comrades.’
‘You are both very young.’
‘We are trumpeters.’
‘And what is this man?’
Jack related what had happened; and on the officer translating to the
General, he gave a curt command; when two of the soldiers, despite the
screams of the wretch, knelt the fellow up, levelled their muskets at
him, and shot him dead.
‘Sharp work,’ said Will, shuddering, ‘but served the scoundrel right.’
That being finished, the officer, translating for General Liprandi,
said, ‘Do you belong to one of the regiments which charged down the
valley this morning?’
Jack replied that they did, and that they were both in the charge.
General Liprandi took a lantern and held it up to their faces; then
noticing the skull and cross-bones on the buttons of their jackets,
asked, through his interpreter, how they came to have such a badge. On
Jack replying, the General, with a small penknife, cut two of the
buttons from his jacket and put them in his pocket. He then asked, ‘Were
not all your men and officers drunk when they charged this morning?’
‘On the contrary,’ replied Jack, ‘none of them had even broken their
fast.’
This the General did not seem inclined to believe, when, an idea
striking Jack, he said, ‘If you like to look in the haversacks of any of
my dead countrymen you will doubtless find their day’s rations
untouched!’
This was done, and the General actually inspected the food found in the
haversack of a dead Hussar.
Various other questions as to the number of troops the English had, what
they thought of the action of the day, and so on, were put to Jack and
Will, none of which they would answer. They were then asked if they
could prove they had only ventured on the field of battle in search of
wounded comrades, and Jack replied that if the Russians would return a
little way along the valley with him he would show them the body of a
comrade whom they had decently laid out.
To Jack’s surprise he was told to lead the way, the Russians following
him. When they came to the place where poor Larry lay, the trumpeters
were alarmed to see the Dragoon still kneeling, as though in prayer,
beside the body of his cousin.
Jack expected every instant he too would be made a prisoner; but on a
sharp word from General Liprandi, the officers removed their headdresses
and stood still till the poor pious Irishman, looking up, saw to his
intense astonishment the group of Russians, with Jack and Will prisoners
among them. He jumped to his feet, when the English-speaking officer
said, ‘Do not be afraid; we shall not hurt you. And you two,’ turning to
Jack and Will, ‘are free. The General says you may return to your camp
and do not trouble any more about your wounded. It is for this very
reason these men you see about are on the field. He bids me tell you
that the Russians are Christians as well as the English, and that what
the English doctors did for the Russian wounded after the battle of the
Alma our doctors will do for your wounded after our victory of
Balaclava.’ The words ‘victory of Balaclava’ rankled in Jack’s mind.
True, the Russians had possession of the field, and had even captured a
few English guns; but not once had they stood before the English, who
had proved their superiority in the field and driven the Russians before
them.
However, that was no moment for arguing, and, thankful to regain his
liberty, he asked permission to take the dead body of Larry with them.
This being granted, they departed towards their own lines.
Confident that any of their wounded comrades would be well treated did
they fall into the hands of General Liprandi, Denis O’Callaghan returned
with Jack and Will, and they reached their lines just as word had been
given to move the camp half a mile farther back.
They then wrapped poor Larry in the cloak of a dead Lancer, and Denis
sat beside the body till daylight, while Jack, at last worn out with the
exertions of the past day and night, lay down and slept almost as
soundly as his dead friend.
Williams, who had been wounded in the charge, had managed to crawl back
to the English lines during the night, and was then in hospital. The
next day the remnants of the light cavalry brigade were moved still
farther up the valley.
During the day, the Russians, elated with a rose-coloured account of
the battle of Balaclava, made a determined attack upon the Second
Division; but the English outlying pickets met them bravely and held
them in check till reinforcements came up, when the able commander of
the division so handled his men that he drew the enemy on till he had
got him within his grasp, and then completely crushed him with his
artillery, killing and wounding about five hundred.
Poor Larry was laid to rest with military honours. Jack cut the gold
chevrons from his jacket to keep in remembrance of him, and Denis
O’Callaghan, with the permission of Larry’s colonel, had his bugle,
which he intended to send to Larry’s father. The trumpeters of his own
and Jack’s regiment, only five in all, attended and sounded the ‘last
post’ over the grave in which he was laid, his only covering being the
old Lancer cloak in which Jack had wrapped him. During the ceremony,
Jerry, the regimental dog of the 8th Hussars, sat looking as if he
understood it all, giving an occasional whine, and following the men of
the 8th when they turned away from the grave.
Two days later the camp was again shifted to a pretty spot up among the
hills on the road from Balaclava, close to the rear of the French centre
on the Sapoune Ridge.
The depression in the Light Brigade caused by their terrible losses
began to wear off, and the men were pretty busy doing orderly and escort
duty.
Jack’s share in the great fight was brought under notice of Captain
Morgan, then in command, Captain Wintle having been killed and Captain
Norreys in hospital. He was the only soldier who had taken part in both
charges, and earned more celebrity than his modesty appreciated.
Sergeant Barrymore, who was promoted to sergeant-major after the charge,
said on several occasions, ‘Captain Norreys took the old regiment into
action; but if any one can be said to have brought out what remained of
it, that man was Jack Blair. He is, so far as “Ours” is concerned, the
hero of Balaclava.’ The men fully agreeing, Jack got the nickname of
‘Blair of Balaclava.’
Being then old enough, acting on the advice of Captain Norreys, who in
spite of his terrible hurts was in a fair way of recovery, Jack
transferred to the ranks, resigning his place as trumpeter. In fact
there was small need for a trumpeter at all with the handful of men who
were left, and Will was quite able to do all the duty required. Jack on
transfer received promotion, and found himself in orders as sergeant,
probably the youngest sergeant in the Crimea.
During the next few days the pickets and vedettes, keeping an ever
watchful eye on the enemy, noticed that enormous reinforcements reached
the Russians, and it was evident that the Czar, probably enraged at the
idea of a mere handful of hardy soldiers invading his territories and
sitting down before his fortress of Sebastopol, had determined to use
all the resources of his mighty empire to sweep the arrogant invaders
into the sea.
Thousands upon thousands of men, horse, foot, and artillery, were poured
into Sebastopol, whole divisions at a time, and to the badly fed,
ragged, and overworked heroes in the allied camps it became evident that
soon, very soon, they would have to wage grim battle against their enemy
for their very existence.